SERMON 



OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF THE 



Hon. ARCHIBALD MCINTYRE. 



A 

SERMON 

ADItUESSKIl TO THE 

SECOND PRESBYTERIAM CONGREGATION, ALBANY, 

SUNDAY AFTEKNOON, MAY 9, 185 0. 
ON OCCASION OF THK DKATH OF TIIR 

Hon. AKCllIBALD MCINTYRE. 

BY WILLIAM B. SPRAGUE, D. D., 

MINISTER OF THE SAID CONGREGATION. 



PRINTED BV RF.QUEST OF THE BEREAVED FAMILY. 



S ALBANY : 

VAN BENTHUYSEN'S PRINT. 

1858. 



e^, 



.15 



SERMON. 



JOB XLII, 17. 
So Job died, beinc; old and riai, of days. 

Death, in its more general aspects, is always 
the same — in its more particular aspects, it is 
greatly modified by character and circum- 
stances. "Job died''' — the silver cord by 
which body and soul were bound together was 
loosed, — the one becoming disorganized, and 
sinking into decay, the bther passing away, in 
conscious activity, into the world unseen ; and 
herein he is a representative of the whole 
human family. Job was " one that feared God 
and eschewed eviV — he held fast his integrity 
under the most trying circumstances ; and this 
made him, in his death not less than in his 
life, a representative of the whole redeemed 
family. " Job died, being old and full of 
days " — he died not only a good man, but a 
good old man — his death terminated a long life, 
which had been devoted to the service of God, 
and the benefit of his fellow creatures. You 



see then that the brief but striking obituary 
record which I have just read to you, natu- 
rally suggests, as a subject for our contempla- 
tion, THE DEATH OF AN AGED CHRISTIAN a SubjCCt 

to which the Providence of God is impressively 
directing us. Let us then briefly consider the 
death of the aged Christian under the aspect 
of a change. 

1. And I remark, in the first place, that it 
is a change from ivcariness to rest. Life, espe- 
cially the Christian's life, is fitly compared to 
a pilgrimage ; which, though brief in itself, 
often seems long, by reason of the rugged path 
through which it leads, and the numerous and 
heavy burdens which are incident to it. There 
is the burden of labour and care ; there is the 
burden of disappointment and sorrow, and 
sometimes of opposition and reproach ; and 
heavier than all is the burden of sin, which 
often makes the soul, when it would desire to 
rise, cleave unto the dust — to all these burdens 
the Christian is more or less subject in every 
part of his earthlj^ course. Old age is by no 
means exempt from them; while yet it has 
ordinarily less strength and resolution to endure 
them than any preceding period. Is it any 



wonder that he to whom even the grasshopper 
is a burden, should grow weary under the 
accumulated burdens that press upon him in 
the vale of years ? Is it strange that the 
thought of rest should be welcome to him ; 
that the desire of rest should make him will- 
ing, aye more than willing, to close his pilgrim- 
age ? 

Well, this desire is fully accomplished by 
death. Whatever may have oppressed either 
his body or his mind, death puts the burden 
so fir away that it can never return upon him 
again. And the rest which he now finds is an 
enduring and satisfying rest ; because it is a 
rest in the ever-living, all-gracious and all-faith- 
ful God. Behold that veteran saint, bowed 
with age ; bowed with sorrow ; bowed under 
accumulated difficulties and disappointments ; 
bowed under a sense of his own infirmities 
and corruptions — behold him as he enters the 
dark valley — the burden is upon him even 
there. Behold him as he jiasses out of it — the 
burden is gone — the deliverance is complete — 
he has entered on his eternal rest. Yes, that 
weary old pilgrim has found his repose at last — 
all the • elements of disquietude are removed 



6 

from his soul, and neither earth nor hell can 
now reach him with any of its disturbing 
influences. Shall not that then be reckoned 
a gracious agency, though it be the agency of 
dark and horrible death, by which a change 
so desirable, so glorious, is accomplished ? 

2. The death of the aged saint is a change 
from decay to renovation. Old age is not indeed 
exclusively the period of decay; for the vigour 
of manhood not unfrequently settles into 
enduring feebleness, and even the flower of 
youth loses its bright hues, and droojDs toward 
the dust. Nor is old age always alike the period 
of decay ; for here and there we find an old 
man, in whom we recognise a specimen of 
embalmed youth ; who stands like some great 
old forest tree, as erect, and as able to brave 
the winds and storms, as ever. Still, old age 
is proverbially the period of decay — though 
sickness, and calamity, and all other wasting 
agents should keep away, time alone will sooner 
or later accomplish the consuming process. 
Then the body, — the earthly tabernacle, 
betrays its tendencies to dissolution. The 
almond tree flourishes; the face becomes fur- 
rowed ; the hearing blunted ; the vision indis- 



tinct ; the limbs rigid ; and the whole frame 
bowed and tottering. And with this outward 
dilapidation the mind sympathizes. First of 
all, the memory refuses to retain any fresh 
deposit, and its hold is gradually loosened 
even of its early treasures. Then the reason- 
ing faculty begins to fail, — the power both of 
abstraction and of analysis ; and the mind 
that could once frame an elaborate argument, 
and defend a difficult position with skill and 
prowess, now falters at the first step of the 
humblest intellectual process. And by and 
by, if death does not prevent, the perceptions 
become so dim that not only the voice of con- 
jugal or filial tenderness ceases to be distin- 
guished, but even the loving ministrations of 
the little children of the third or fourth gene- 
ration, who still come and enthrone themselves 
upon those feeble knees, pass unheeded. And 
in proportion as the intellect decays, and the 
animal spirits droop, the affections often become 
chilled or paralyzed, so that even the great 
objects and interests of religion, as they are 
grasped with less tenacity, bring less of posi- 
tive, solid comfort to the soul. Indeed, there 
is no part of the human constitution, physical. 



intellectual, or moral, which the frost of old 
age does not touch, or which is proof against its 
blighting power. 

But death, though it seems almost like 
the consummation of the j^rocess of decay in 
respect to the body, and like the actual extinc- 
tion of the intellectual and moral man, is never- 
theless the great rej^airer of each; or rather 
the harbinger of an entire renovation. The 
mind, which old age had crippled and par- 
alyzed, springs from its falling tenement, not 
only free from its manifold infirmities, but 
endued with fresh strength and powers hitherto 
undeveloped, which render it even to itself an 
object of delightful amazement. The affec- 
tions, having shaken ofi' the languor which old 
age had brought upon them, soar away in all 
the brightness and freshness of a new life, to 
come in direct contact with those immortal 
scenes and objects, to which they had here 
been trained to rise. The body must indeed 
wait awhile in its lowly resting place for decay 
to have its perfect work ; and it may slumber 
there as disorganized matter, common dust, for 
ages ; but the Resurrection and the Life all the 
time guards it as faithfully as if it were his 



9 

only charge ; and ere long He will speak the 
omnipotent word, that shall reconstruct it 
into a glorified habitation for a glorified spirit. 
Here again, I ask, is not death to be regarded 
as a delightful change to the aged saint, whom 
it delivers from so much infirmity, and endues 
with such immortal streno-th ? 

3. Death, to the aged Christian, is a transi- 
tion from comparative solitude to an enlarged and 
glorified companionship, and especially to a re- 
union with a host of Christian friends, who had 
preceded him in his e?itrance into rest. It is easy 
to see how old age becomes solitary. The man 
who has lived to that period, has lived long 
enough for two or three generations of his 
acquaintance to pass away. In the days of 
his childhood he knew some hoary-headed old 
men, who used perhaps to take him by the 
hand and impart to him their blessing ; but 
that is all that he remembers concerning them, 
except perhaps that he followed them to the 
grave. Then there was a younger generation, 
whose days of vigorous manhood corresponded 
to his days of youthful buoyancy — he was their 
contemporary long enough to become familiar 
with them ; and not improbably they may have 
2 



10 

exerted an important influence in moulding 
his character : he can bring them vividly to 
his remembrance — he can give us the details 
of their history — he can even cause them to' 
live in our thoughts and affections ; but it is 
long since there was one of them left to speak 
for himself. And finally, he had his own 
youthful companions — there were those on 
every side of him, — some a little older, others 
a little younger, than himself, with whom he 
was associated in his education, in his amuse- 
ments, in his projected plans for life ; and with 
some of whom he was united in the bonds of 
an endearing friendship. From childhood and 
youth upward he moved along in the same 
ranks with these ; but almost from the very 
commencement of the journey, they began to 
drop* off, one by one, and that process of 
diminution has been always going forward, until 
there is now only here and there a survi- 
vor — possibly he may be the very last repre- 
sentative of his generation. The places of 
those who are gone, have indeed been filled 
and the .surrounding population may have 
even greatly increased; but while they look 
up to him as a venerable old man, he looks 



11 

down upon them, for the most part, as a com- 
munity of strangers. They have his good 
wishes indeed, and his prayers, and so far as 
may be, his efforts, for the promotion of their 
best interests; but his views, and tastes, and 
habits, having been formed under other influ- 
ences, and belonging to another period, he feels 
more at home with the dead than the living — 
he can walk through a crowded street, and yet 
be solitary ; but when he walks into the grave 
yard, where his friends have so long been 
gathering, his mind fills with tender and hal- 
lowed memories, that seem at once to repro- 
duce the past, and to anticipate the results of 
the Resurrection day. Am I not right then, 
in saying that old age is j^re-eminently a 
period of solitude ? 

But not a small portion of these friends of 
his youth, and of his riper years, who have 
descended to the grave before him, were 
Christian friends — they, like him, had borne 
the image of the Heavenly; and they had 
been associated with him in his efforts to do 
good ; and perhaps he • had seen some of 
them step into the chariot of glory for 
their upward journey. Now it is death's 



12 

cold hand, and yet kind hand, that restores 
him to the goodly fellowship of these kindred 
minds, these former friends, — to commune 
with them under circumstances infinitely more 
ennobling and enrapturing than any effort of 
imagination had previously enabled him to 
conceive. Nor is this all ; for he is ushered 
into a world where there are only friends ; 
where there is not a being who is indiffer- 
ent to his happiness, or whose heart does 
not beat in unison with his on the all-absorb- 
ing themes of immortality and redemption. 
His friends on earth, who had passed the Hea- 
venly portals before him, will no doubt wel- 
come his arrival with peculiar joy ; but what 
are they, compared with the ten thousand 
times ten thousand and thousands of thou- 
sands, to whom he is also welcome, as a fresh 
witness from earth to the power of God's 
grace, and a sharer in their sublime ministra- 
tions. Ye Patriarchs, who saw the world in 
its youth, and were identified with the earliest 
developments of the plan of redeeming mercy ; 
ye Prophets, who were permitted' to look into 
the future, and have left a record of your 
grand discoveries, for the benefit of the Church 



13 

to the end of time ; ye Apostles, the loved 
and loving friends of Jesus, whom, when He 
ascended, He appointed to nurse his religion 
through the struggles of its early infancy ; ^^e 
Martyrs of our God, whose blood witnesseth 
for you both on earth and in Heaven ; ye 
Reformers, who conducted the Church out of 
the darkness of ages before ye went to your 
rest ; yes, and ye Angels that stand round the 
throne; and even Thou, Son of God, Lamb of 
God, who art seated in the midst of the 
throne ; ye all are ready to greet with a joy- 
ful Avelcome that old saint who lies upon 
yonder death-bed, with his eye fixed upon the 
Heavens ! Blessed be death, I think I hear you 
say, that performs such an office for the aged 
Christian as this — the removing him from a 
world where he felt like a stranger, to a world 
where the best friendships of earth are renewed 
and brightened, and where he becomes one of a 
vast community of glorified minds, who are 
united in perpetual bonds of love. 

4. Death removes the old disciple from a 
world, which a long life has proved to be an unsa- 
tisfying portion, to one in which every desire is 
fully met. 



14 

He has not indeed, at least during his whole 
life, made the world his supreme portion — his 
best treasure has been in Heaven, and there 
his affections have chiefly centered. Still he 
has been compelled to feel, at every step of 
his course, that this is a treacherous world; 
that it trifles with human hopes ; that it often 
mocks the best concerted plans; that it spreads 
forth its beauty and fragrance only to attract 
us to be stung by a serpent or pierced by a 
thorn. When it might have reached out to 
him a helping hand, it has sometimes refused 
it : when his worldly prospects have suffered 
a partial eclipse, f)erliaps it has wished and 
striven to make the darkness total. In such a 
world the Christian could not wish to live 
always — he craves something more true, more 
stable, more satisfying. But in addition to 
this, he is flir from being satisfied with his 
own present religious attainments — though 
he has precious hopes and consolations, and 
many tokens of the gracious presence of his 
Father in Heaven, he is still the subject of 
an inward conflict — he sometimes bows to the 
temporary dominion of sin ; and, as a conse- 
quence, he walks in darkness and sees no light. 



15 

He would fjiiii rise to n higher measure of 
holiness, — even to angelic purity. He would 
lay his armour by, because there are no more 
enemies to be conquered. He would breathe 
an atmosphere more invigorating to the spirit- 
ual .life. He thanks God that he is permitted 
to serve Him, even in an imperfect manner, 
here ; but he longs to do his will with more 
alacrity and constancy ; to celebrate his praise 
with more fervour ; to bear his image in 
greater perfection. 

How grateful must it be to the Christian, 
who has been buffetted by the storms of 
almost a century, finding substantial happi- 
ness in nothing which the world could afibrd, 
to be ushered into a world, where no tem- 
pests of trouble w^ill ever rise; where there 
will be no illusions and no disappointments ; 
nothing to mar the present, or to cloud the 
future ! Especially how delightful to realize 
that he has nothing more to fear from tempta- 
tion without, or corruption within ; that he 
has attained to the fulness of the stature of a 
perfect person in Christ; and that the only 
change to pass upon him hereafter, will be 
a change from glory to glory ! May he not 



16 

then well afford to welcome de.ath, when 
such blessings as these are connected with it ? 
And may not we, with good reason, stand by 
the coffin of the aged saint with joy, when we 
remember that death has only summoned him 
from a scene of vicissitude and calamity, and 
a state of partial sanctification, which have 
been commensurate with a long life, to a 
region where not a thought can ever miss its 
object, not an expectation can ever be disap- 
pointed, nor the least vestige of moral evij 
remain to retard the soul in its ever ascending 
career ? 

Such is the change wrought by death in the 
condition of every good man, who, like Job, 
dies, being old and full of days. Thou art a 
happy old man, in spite of all thy burdens, 
and thy decays ; thy solitary days, thy many 
blasted hopes, and the work that grace has yet 
to accomplish in thine heart. Aye, and espe- 
cially, I will call thee a happy old man, when 
I see thee breasting the swellings of Jordan ; 
for that is the immediate harbinger of thy rest. 
A few more struggles, and thy comparatively 
long pilgrimage has terminated in the life ever- 
lasting — thy feet are planted on the shores of 



17 

immortality — thou hast become a king and a 
priest- unto God ! 

Of the subject on which we have been 
meditating we have a fine illustration in the 
life, death, and character of a venerable mem- 
ber of this church, who has just departed to 
his reward. Considering that his life has been 
one of diversified interest, and his character 
one of singular purity and elevation, and his 
relations to society such as to open for him 
many channels of public usefulness, and con- 
sidering withal that, at the time of his death, 
he was the most aged person connected with 
this church, I have no fear that it will seem to 
any of you an invidious distinction that I 
should sketch a rapid outline of his history, 
and then advert to some of the more prominent 
traits of his character. 

Archibald McIntyre, a son of Daniel and 
Ann (Walker) McIntyre, was born in Ken- 
more, Perthshire, Scotland, on the 1st of June, 
1772. His parents were both exemplary mem- 
bers of the Church of Scotland, and were not 
wanting in due attention to the intellectual 
and moral interests of their household. His 
father was a well educated man, and was 
3 



18 

employed for some time as the parish school- 
master in the place in which he lived. In 
1774, when his son Archibald was but two 
years old, he was led, by the glowing repre- 
sentations he had heard of this country, to 
migrate hither with his fiimily. He used to 
speak of it as a somewhat singular coincidence 
that, at the time of their embarkation at Glas- 
gow, he was carried on board the ship in the 
arms of the father of Dr. McNaughton, since 
married- to his youngest daughter. The stormy 
character of the period was indicated by the 
fact that the first thing that attracted his atten- 
tion, on their arrival in New York, was the 
tarring and feathering of a Tory, in a house 
directly opposite to that in which they had 
stopped. 

The family almost immediately came up 
the river as far as Haverstraw, where they 
were treated with great kindness, especially 
by Colonel Hay, a distinguished officer of the 
Revolution. From Haverstraw they removed 
to Broadalbin, then an almost unbroken wilder- 
ness, in company with four or five other Scot- 
tish families, who had also then lately come to 
this country. As they all spoke Gaelic, and 



19 

as the father of our friend was as familiar with 
Gaelic as with English, the several families were 
wont to assemble at his house on Sunday, and 
he would read a chapter to them, and then 
offer a prayer, in their own language. Mr. 
Mclntyre himself w^as accustomed, in early 
life, to speak both languages ; but his know- 
ledge of the Gaelic gradually declined, from 
disuse, until at length it ceased almost alto- 
gether. 

The region in which they lived, shared 
largely in the perils of the Revolution.; and in 
one instance at least, they came near falling a 
sacrifice to the barbarity of the Indians. In 
consequence of this exjDOsed condition, the fam- 
ily at length abandoned the place, and came to 
reside in this city ; and here the father was 
engaged for several years in teaching a school, 
his son Archibald being one of his pupils. In 
connection with his attendance at this school, 
he related to me the following incident, as 
forming an enduring claim upon his gratitude 
to the Divine goodness. On his w^ay to school, 
one day, he waded into the stream between the 
Patroon's Island and the shore, and, in conse- 
quence of being chased by another boy, fell 



20 

where the water was of such depth that he 
was in great danger of being drowned. His 
sister who was on the Island, and at a consider- 
able distance from him, saw his head moving 
rapidly up and down in the water, and for 
some time supposed that he was in a frolic ; 
but the motion continued so long that she 
became alarmed, and sent two young men to 
his aid, if he needed aid ; and they reached 
him just in time to save his life. He himself 
had concluded that his case was hopeless ; and 
when he imagined that he was sinking for the 
last time, he said the only thought that occu- 
pied his mind was that his mother's heart 
would be broke, when she should hear what 
had become of him. 

Sometime after the close of ■ the Revolu- 
tion, the family returned to their former resi- 
dence ; but Archibald, who had by that time 
become a young man, staid behind, and for one 
year taught the school in this city, of which 
his father had had the charge, and tlien joined 
the family again at Broadalbin. Here he was 
engaged, partly in fjirming, and partly in other 
pursuits, for a year or two, when he accepted 
an invitation from Judge Palmer of Ballston to 



21 

assist him in his Conveyancing office ; and 
while thus employed, he gave some attention 
to the business of surveying. After about 
three years, he returned to Broadalbin, where, 
for the next three or four years, he was engaged 
on a small scale in mercantile business, and, 
during this period, was chosen a member of the 
Assembly in the State Legislature, " for the 
County of Montgomery ; in which capacity he 
served in the years 1799, 1800, and 1801. 
In October of the last mentioned year, he 
was appointed Deputy Secretary of State ; 
and he held this office till March, 1806, 
when he was appointed Comptroller of the 
State. In this latter office he continued till 
February, 1821, and in connection with it 
was placed in circumstances in which his con- 
duct formed an admirable illustration of his 
uncompromising integrity. In 1823, he was 
elected a member of the State Senate, but held 
'the office for only a short time ; and this closed 
his public life. After this, he Avas engaged in 
active business, first in Philadelphia, and then 
in New York ; and in 1835, came to make his 
permanent home in this city, — the scene of his 
early experiences and recollections, thus ren- 



22 

dering us all the witnesses of his serene, digni- 
fied and Christian old age. In April, 1838, he 
made a public profession of his faith, and 
became a member of this church. For several 
of the last years, as you know, his health, 
always delicate, has been gradually declining; 
but he has evinced a tenacity of life to which 
it is believed that it is not easy to find a 
parallel. It is only within a few weeks that 
the change has taken place that left us in no 
doubt that his end was near; and even since 
that time, the decay has been so silent that it 
was difficult for us to realize that the time of 
his departure had fully come. 

Before speaking of Mr. Mclntyre's charac- 
ter, as it has been developed in his general 
course through life, I wish to make two 
remarks — one is that he was greatly favoured 
in his original constitution, both intellectual 
and inoral — there was such a fine adjustment 
of the various faculties as to exclude every 
thing like natural eccentricity. The other is 
that though he was comparatively late in 
making a public profession of religion, yet, 
through the influence of an excellent Scotch 
training, he had always a deep sense of moral 



23 

obligation, and great reverence for Divine 
institutions. Even if we should suppose that 
he did not experience the regenerating power 
of the Gospel much before. he connected him- 
self with the Church, the two circumstances 
which I have mentioned may account for the 
qualities and acts by which his character and 
life had been marked, anterior to that event ; 
though I am well aware that those who have 
known him longest and best, refer his actual 
conversion to some indefinite earlier period. 

I have already intimated that our venerable 
friend was free from all constitutional eccen- 
tricity ; and I can not reduce my estimate 
of him to a single sentence better than by 
saying that he possessed an admirably well 
balanced character. Let me briefly illustrate 
my meaning. 

With great efficiency he united great modesty. 
His efficiency had its origin, partly in his 
intellectual, and partly in his moral, nature. 
His perceptions were clear, his judgment sound, 
his memory retentive, his observation of men 
and things close and accurate ; and while he 
had more than the ordinary advantages for 
education, he never remitted the habit of self- 



24 

culture which he early formed, and was always 
taking useful lessons in the great school of 
human life. And then his moral qualities 
were such as to direct and greatly aid the 
operation of the intellectual. He had that 
keen and well trained sense of right that 
ahvnys helps the mind to move with freedom. 
He had that bland and gentle spirit that is 
powerful to remove obstacles, and quick to 
work its way into other hearts. He had that 
perseverance that waxes strong, as the clouds 
grow dark, and the way becomes thorny. And 
hence we find that in the various ^Dositions he 
occupied, he always made himself felt — his 
influence, though it may have wrought silently, 
wrought powerfully ; and those who stood 
nearest to him, realized most sensibly that it 
could not be dispensed with, without loss or 
danger to the cause or the object to which it 
was directed. 

But no matter what might be the measure 
of his activity or his influence, he never, by 
his words or actions, made the least attempt 
at display. His mind was evidently absorbed 
in the effort to accomplish the good he had in 
view, and seemed utterly oblivious of all con- 



25 

siderations of personal interest, above all of 
self complacency. He eschewed ostentation 
in others — he could not have practised it him- 
self, but that his whole nature would have 
risen in rebellion. On one or two occasions 
in his life, the public sense of his upright and 
noble conduct would not excuse him from 
receiving an honourable testimony from his 
fellow citizens; but he accepted it diffidently, 
not to say reluctantly. Though his modesty 
was never suffered to interfere with the full 
discharge of his duty, it always forbade undue 
publicity to his acts, while it threw around 
them a charm as rare as it was irresistible. 

With an iron firmness he united a tender 
sensibility. Though he might sometimes, like 
other men, mistake in his judgments, yet, 
when they were once formed, in view of the 
best light he could command, he adhered to 
them in his actions with a resolution that was 
perfectly indomitable. You might as well 
think to move a mountain from its foundations 
as, either by persuasion or menace, to divert 
him from the course which he honestly believed 
was right. And yet he was far from being 
obstinate — his mind seemed always open to 
4 



26 

the light, and when he saw reason for chang- 
ing his opinions or his conduct, he did it with 
the best grace, and without any apparent 
sacrifice. I remember an instance in which, 
upon what he deemed sufficient evidence, he 
had conceived a very unfavourable opinion of 
an individual, with whom he had previously 
been in intimate relations; and the next time 
he met him, he felt constrained to withhold 
the usual expression of cordiality, and even 
treated him in a manner to indicate that his 
presence was unwelcome. But, in the course 
of a brief interview, he became satisfied that 
he had taken a wrong impression ; and instantly 
his heart flew open in expressions of good will 
and confidence proportioned to the previous 
warmth of his displeasure. True, inflexibly 
true to his convictions, he nevertheless had 
none of that pride of consistency, that would 
prevent him from acknowledging a mistake, or 
retracting an error. 

But this invincible firmness, as may be 
inferred from the statement I have just made, 
was not even allied to an arbitrary or over- 
bearing spirit — so far from it that it existed in 
close union with a sensibility that could never 



27 

resist any reasonable appeal, and that kept 
him alive to every form of human suffering, 
I have often been struck with the fact that, 
even in his old age, when he was oppressed 
by infirmities, and sometimes perplexed with 
cares, he could become so completely absorbed 
in some tale of wo, as instantly to volunteer a 
personal effort for administering relief. It was 
really a sublime spectacle to see the bold, 
uncompromising old man, thus borne away by 
the force of his own kindly and generous 
emotions. 

With perfect transparency he united coni- 
mendable caution. I never heard that a human 
being even suspected him of any approach to 
double dealing, or unworthy concealment. The 
needle is not more true to the pole than were 
his words to his thoughts — as there was the 
utmost clearness in his conceptions, so there 
was a corresponding exactness in his state- 
ments. I doubt not that he would have sacri- 
ficed his right hand rather than have become 
answerable to his conscience for a voluntary, 
deliberate deception, even though it might 
have been accomplished without uttering a 
word ; and if he had had the least suspicion of 



28 

having unwittingly conveyed an erroneous 
impression, he never would have rested till he 
had become satisfied either that the suspicion 
was unfounded, or that the impression was 
removed. 

But his frankness rarely, if ever, degenera- 
ted into rashness, or involved him in difiiculty. 
Every one feels that this is a noble quality ; 
and the excess of it is regarded as nothing 
worse than a generous- failing. In his case, 
it. was so modified by a kindly spirit and 
manner, that even those to whom it came 
in the form of personal rebuke or remon- 
strance, would find it difficult to meditate 
revenge, or even to harbour prejudice. With 
all the generous freedom that marked his 
demonstrations, his movements were generally 
made, not only with due consideration and 
forethought, but in a manner to conciliate, 
rather than repel, those who might in any way 
be affected by them. 

I will only add, in respect to his general 
character, that, with an expansive liberality he 
combined a frugal simplicity. During the 
earlier part of his life, his worldly circum- 
stances were so straitened that it was impos- 



29 

sible for him to make any large offerings in the 
way of charity; but from the time that he 
became possessed of ample means, he showed 
that he regarded himself as a steward by the 
manner in which he disposed of them. His 
benefactions in the various departments of the 
great cause of humanity and of God were not 
only generous but princely ; and when, subse- 
quently, his circumstances became somewhat 
less easy, his contributions were still kept up, 
to the full measure of his ability ; and even 
when his means were the most restricted, he 
would suffer no object to which he had been 
accustomed to contribute to pass without some 
practical demonstration of his good-will. I 
think there was no public institution with 
which he co-operated more cordially than the 
American Colonization Society; for he re- 
garded it as not only a powerful auxiliary to 
the cause of human freedom, as an admirably 
adapted means for enlightening and regenerat- 
ing the darkest part of the world, but as hav- 
ing a most important prospective bearing upon 
the interests of our own republic. He was 
liberal in his benefactions, because his great 
and generous heart would not allow him to be 



30 

otherwise ; and yet his liberality, so far from 
being a matter of accidental impulse, was al- 
ways exercised in obedience to the dictates of 
high Christian principle. 

But, notwithstanding the amplitude of both 
his resources and his gifts, he did not make a 
show of either. Though his habits were of 
course somewhat modified by change of cir- 
cumstances, he never lost his relish for the 
simplicity and frugality which he had learned 
under the sterner discipline of his earlier years. 
And it was no doubt owing, in no small degree, 
to this, that his life was preserved, and his 
usefulness continued, during so long a period 
of infirmity and decay. 

What I have said may suffice as an illustra- 
tion of his general character. But I must say 
a word of his more distinctive Christian cha- 
racteristics, especially as they w^ere devel- 
oped under the influence of the peculiar trials 
incident to his last years. 

And the first thing which I feel prompted 
to say of him, as he comes up before me, is, 
" Here is the patience of the saints." When he 
first became sensible that he had already 
reached a measure of decrepitude that warned 



oi 

him of approaching helplessness ; when it 
seemed to urge itself upon him, as a fearful 
probability, that, by the total loss of his sight 
and hearing, his intercourse with the outer 
world would be completely terminated, while 
yet his mental faculties might, for aught that 
appeared, retain their full vigour, he was 
manifestly, for a season, rendered not only 
anxious but restless ; but his mind gradually 
settled into a state of serene and submissive 
trust, that disposed him much more to dwell 
with gratitude on the blessings that remained 
to him, than to murmur that some had been, 
and others might be, taken away. Though his 
apprehensions in regard to his sight and hear- 
ing were never fully realized, yet such was the 
decay of both these senses, and such the in- 
creasing feebleness of his limbs and his whole 
frame, that his condition became an exceed- 
ingly trying one ; but he had evidently suc- 
ceeded in bringing his spirit into delightful 
harmony with the Divine will, and those who 
saw him in his moments of greatest suffering, 
could not detect, even in his looks, so much 
as the semblance of a murmur. That beauti- 
ful hymn of Cowper that begins, — 



32 

" Lord, I would delight iu thee, 

" And on thy care depend; 
" To Thee in every trouble flee, 

" My best, my only friend," — 

he would often repeat, especially when he was 
in pain; and sometimes, during his last weeks, 
the low and laboured utterance of these lines 
would convey to those who were watching at 
his bedside the first intimation that a paroxysm 
of pain was coming on. It was evidently be- 
cause he felt that God was his refuge, and that 
all his interests were safe in His keeping, that 
he was enabled thus quietly to submit to all 
that was laid upon him. 

Another striking feature in his later Chris- 
tian developments was his iove for the public 
ordinances of religion ; and when he could no 
longer enjoy them, for the best substitutes that 
he could avail himself of. He delighted to be 
here mingling with us in our solemn worship ; 
and hither he continued to come until the loss 
of his hearing rendered the whole service an 
utter blank. And even after that, he was 
always here at the Communion, until his 
strength had so far declined as to render it 
impracticable ; for he could receive the conse- 
crated elements, and thus feed on the body 



33 

and blood of Christ by faith, when he could 
bring neither sight nor hearing to the service. 
His last attendance on such an occasion was 
in connection with a scene which, I suppose, 
can scarcely have been forgotten by any one 
wdio witnessed it. As his extreme feebleness 
forbade his attempting to sit here during the 
wdiole morning service, he arranged to come a 
little before the administration of the ordi- 
nance commenced; and he sat a few moments, 
resting himself in the vestibule of the church. 
When those who did not choose to be specta- 
tors of the solemnity had retired, so that he 
would meet wdth no obstruction on the way 
to his pew, and just as I was rising to lead 
you away to Calvary, the venerable old man 
came walking in, guided along through the 
comparative darkness by one who watched his 
every movement with the tenderest solicitude, 
and leaning on an arm that was always strong 
wdien it was needed for his support. We felt 
as if good old Simeon were here, embracing 
Jesus in the arms of his fiiith ; and we did not 
forget to pray that he might have a peaceful 
departure. That was his last visit to the tem- 
ple. Though he lived a considerable time 
5 



34 

afterwards, and evidently noted every Commu- 
nion season, as a sort of spiritual jubilee, 
sometimes vainly hoping beforehand that he 
niight be able to join us in person as well as 
in spirit, yet when he passed the threshold of 
this house then, he passed it never to return — 
the next time that he mingled with a congre- 
gation of worshippers, it was with the General 
Assembly and Church of the firstborn. 

But though he was thenceforth an exile 
from the sanctuary, he was not cut off from 
the privilege of spiritual and devout contem- 
plation; and it was a gratification to his 
friends to read to him, as his imperfect hear- 
ing would allow, the Bible, and other religious 
books suited to his taste and circumstances. 
In this he evidently took great delight, until 
his ear became so nearly impervious to sound, 
and his powers of perception and comprehen- 
sion had grown so feeble, that his friends were 
obliged to forego the grateful office. But it 
w\as manifest, even amidst the desolations of 
both the physical and the intellectual man, 
that his spirit had not lost its upward aspira- 
tions. A few days before his death, Avhen 
conjugal and filial aftection was watching and 



36 

analyzing every broken sentence that lie 
uttered, he said to his beloved wife, — address- 
ing her by the familiar appellation to which 
he had been accustomed, — " Mother, I have 
faith ;" and though he could not hear her grate- 
ful and tender response, he said, as if to make 
the assurance stronger, or because it was a 
theme upon which he could not keep his lips 
closed, — " Mother, I have faith in Jesus Christ, 
the Son of God." The assurance was not 
needed; and yet coming, as it- evidently 
did, from the depths of his soul, wdien all 
earthly objects and interests had well nigh 
faded from his view, it must have been a pre- 
cious balm to the wounded sjDirit. Among his 
last utterances was the closing verse of the 
twenty-third Psalm — "I will dwell in the 
house of the Lord forever ;" and whether this 
was expressive of his attachment to the earthly 
sanctuary, or his anticipation of the Heavenly, 
it well became the lips of the aged saint, as he 
was getting ready to put on immortality. 

I look upon the last years of my venerable 
friend as having furnished a noble testimony 
to the excellence and power of that Gospel 
which I preach ; and that testimony I would 



36 

fain hold up to you to-day, as having in it the 
elements of precious consolation, of rich en- 
couragement, of solemn warning. I would 
impress it upon the hearts of those to whom 
it comes as a father's legacy, and would bid 
them be thankful to God that they have been 
permitted to live in the light of such a father's 
example, and urge them to learn all the salu- 
tary lessons which are taught both by his life 
and by his death. I would take it to that 
desolate dwelling where the sorrows of widow- 
hood are now for the first time experienced ; 
to that bedside where the struggle with sick- 
ness as well as bereavement is going on ; and 
amidst all that darkness and loneliness, I 
would present it as a blessed light shining 
down from Heaven, as a loving voice speaking 
from amidst the glories of the eternal throne. 
I would carry it into other habitations of sor- 
row, and exhort the stricken inmates to hold 
it to their minds and hearts, till they realize 
that it is a thing of life and power. I would 
ask those whose eyes are becoming dim with the 
rheum of age, to study it, and having settled 
the point on which side of the great dividing 
line they stand, to apply it for their consola- 



37 

tion or their admonition. I would spread it 
out here, with reverent hands, in the presence 
of the congregation of which our departed 
friend has so long been a member, and whose 
interests he so tenderly and devoutly cherished 
to the last; and would beseech every one of 
you, in view of it, to grow in grace, or to 
become reconciled to God. I repeat, that was 
a precious testimony, rendered by human decre- 
pitude and decay, to the mighty power of the 
Gosj)el. May it go forth on a mission of mercy, 
accompanied by the blessing of Him whose 
grace it illustrates and magnifies. 



